


A Very Devoted Daughter-in-Law

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/F, Infidelity, Light Power Play, Vaginal Fingering, also non-penetrative vaginal stimulation, extreme bitchiness as foreplay, risk of getting caught, secrecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22818856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: Narcissa has always thought Pansy not quite good enough for her son. A gold-digger, a tart, a brainless little bitch. That doesn't stop her from fucking Pansy in the library of Malfoy Manor while her husband and son stand just outside. And as far as Pansy is concerned, if Narcissa thinks she's a little bitch...that's exactly what she's going to be.
Relationships: Narcissa Black Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103
Collections: HP Kinkfest 2020





	A Very Devoted Daughter-in-Law

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HP Kinkfest 2020 for the prompt "secrecy, risk of getting caught, pansy/narcissa, neither lucius nor draco has any idea of the affair between them, they're taking a risk going at it in malfoy manor's library," submitted by anonymous

“So. You’re going to marry my son.”

Narcissa says the words to Pansy Parkinson as the younger woman passes the doorway of the darkened library at Malfoy Manor. She sees Pansy stop and turn, slowly.

Narcissa has arranged herself in front of the great glass window overlooking the French garden. Gold lights float in the cool summer air outside, charmed to pulse very gently on and off. Narcissa knows what her white-blonde hair and sharp profile look like silhouetted against the night view. The deep green wrap dress that clings in dignified folds to her well-aged body—tight and supple from potions and creams to take care of wrinkles and sags—makes her look striking and statuesque. Queen of the manor.

Her son’s fiancée steps into the doorway. She cocks her head—her pretty little head.

“Draco and I must thank you and Lucius for your gracious dinner tonight, and for your blessing. I am honored to be part of the Malfoy family.”

Little honor in it these days, some would say, after their two-year sentences in Azkaban and their return to a much-depleted manor. But Draco has learned to hold his head high again, and so has his mother.

“I must admit, I wasn’t sure if you were a fitting choice for my son at first,” Narcissa says, voice silky. “I thought you were just a bit…common.”

Pansy lets out a sharp laugh, tipping her head back, her white throat flashing as the outside lights catch it. “You can say it, Narcissa. You thought I was a gold-digging tart.”

Narcissa curls her mouth in a half smile. It is perhaps her elevated heartbeat that spurs her to say, more cruelly perhaps than she intended, “Actually, I thought you were a brainless little bitch.”

Pansy inhales. Narcissa can hear it. Just a slight gasp she can’t muffle. Her smile widens.

“I can be a little bitch if you want me to,” Pansy says in a low voice, and then pulls out her wand and mutters a rapid spell that shuts the library door behind her. Then she strides toward Narcissa. Her pointed face is pale and haughty under her sharp black bob. Her skin still has the impossible smoothness of youth; she is, after all, not quite yet twenty. Whatever Narcissa said about her being common—and she is, just a little, by Malfoy standards—she certainly holds herself with the disdainful slouch of the public schoolgirl. Narcissa can just picture her, skirt hiked too short, knee socks calling attention to the stretch of her lower thighs, an illicit cigarette smoking in her manicured hand as she showers some pathetic Hufflepuff with withering condescension. Narcissa shifts slightly. Yes, she is aroused by the thought.

Pansy stands before her now, not much older than in Narcissa’s imagining, and raises her chin, surveying the older woman with a hand on her hip.

“You’ve got more wrinkles than the last time I saw you,” she says.

Narcissa lets out a laugh. “Try harder, darling.”

“You fawned over Lucius like a good little housewife at dinner tonight. He put you in your place again?”

Narcissa bites her lip to stop herself gasping. She masters herself, staring at Pansy’s scornful green eyes, and says, “You’ve been crawling on your knees for my son since you were barely a third-year.”

Pansy’s eyes flash, and then she drops, suddenly, to her knees.

Narcissa’s breath catches in her throat.

Pansy slides Narcissa’s dress up her smooth white legs. She parts Narcissa’s knees, then leans in and puts her mouth on Narcissa’s cunt, over her black silk underwear.

Narcissa lets out an abortive shout, stifling it too late, and from the hall she hears a voice:

“Narcissa? Are you all right?”

Lucius. Narcissa’s adrenaline spikes at the sound of his voice and she shifts, trying to move, but Pansy presses the flat of her tongue down against Narcissa and Narcissa says loudly, voice as steady as possible, “Yes, my dear. Startled myself, but I’m all right.”

Another voice answers back: “Mum, is Pansy in there with you? I’m not sure where she slipped off to.”

Narcissa’s hands grasp backwards, searching for something to cling to, and she rests them against the thick windowpanes. Pansy moves with her, scooting closer and sucking between Narcissa’s thighs.

“No,” says Narcissa. “She’s not here.”

She can hear Lucius saying something to Draco about “keeping track of your wife” as Pansy noses against her cunt. She doesn’t get wet as easily as she used to—Lucius always has to use lubrication charms on her—but she is wet now.

She always gets wet for Pansy.

“Join us in the parlor,” Lucius says through the door.

She glances down at Pansy. Pansy looks up at her, green eyes glittering, mouth wet. She shakes her head.

“In a moment,” Narcissa says.

There is a silence. “Fine,” Lucius says curtly. She waits to hear their footsteps recede, but instead Lucius and Draco start to talk in low voices, a conversation Narcissa can’t really hear. She shuts her eyes, suddenly furious with them. _Go away,_ she thinks as loudly as she can.

Pansy gets to her feet, and Narcissa’s heart sinks with disappointment. But Pansy pins Narcissa to the window, quietly, and says in her ear, “You too scared of your husband to let me fuck you while he’s standing outside?”

Narcissa stares at her, then presses her mouth against Pansy’s, takes the girl’s plump bottom lip in her teeth, and bites down. Pansy gasps in pain.

“This house is mine,” Narcissa hisses. “It’s Black money that has restored it since the war. Lucius knows that. He needs me. But do you think Draco will hesitate to kick you to the curb if he sees what a little slut you are?”

Pansy licks at her bitten lip and looks at Narcissa.

“And isn’t it convenient for you that I am?” she asks, and slips her hand under Narcissa’s dress. Narcissa holds her breath as Pansy’s fingers knead at the wet spot on her underwear, sending shocks through Narcissa’s groin. Pansy slides her fingers underneath the panties, cool skin making light contact with Narcissa’s slippery cunt.

A laugh from outside in the corridor—Draco or Lucius. Narcissa swallows. Whatever she said to Pansy, she would have hell to pay from both husband and son if they found her here, like this.

Pansy pushes her finger between Narcissa’s folds and up inside her.

Narcissa’s head falls back against the widow with a gentle _thud._ Pansy’s finger is an insistent nudge, unignorable, pressing against Narcissa’s hot, tight walls. She forces herself to control her breathing, to strain her ears for the sound of a door opening or footsteps coming closer. The possibility of it is doing something funny to her lungs. She feels almost dizzy. Pansy pushes her finger in all at once, as deep as it’ll go. The little _bitch._

“What happens if Draco finds his mummy getting fingered by his fiancée?” Pansy breathes in Narcissa’s ear. Her voice is so crisp, so perfectly posh, too posh, in fact, to be quite genuine. Narcissa wonders if she practiced the accent in front of a mirror before going to Hogwarts. “Do you think he’ll cry?”

_Probably,_ Narcissa thinks, but says, “Do you think he’ll take back all those expensive baubles he gave you when he throws you out?”

Pansy laughs, low. “Speaking of expensive baubles,” she purrs in Narcissa’s ear, “can you feel my engagement ring?” And she slides another finger inside Narcissa’s cunt.

This time Narcissa can’t hold back her gasp, and she hears the conversation falter in the corridor.

Silence. Pansy works her finger deeper, the cold silver ring pressing into Narcissa’s leaking cunt.

Draco and Lucius start talking again.

Pansy smirks at her.

Narcissa knows how hard Pansy can make her come, and wants it badly—Lucius is certainly not giving her any satisfying orgasms these days—but not as badly as she wants to wipe that smirk off the snotty girl’s face.

She steps back, back against the window, and Pansy’s fingers slip out of her. Pansy makes a noise of surprise and then Narcissa grasps her wrists and maneuvers her over to a heavy wooden desk. She pushes Pansy till, hands scrabbling behind her for purchase, she ends up seated on the desktop.

Narcissa grabs underneath Pansy’s dress—chic, slender, just a little too low-cut to be truly high class—and pushes her palm against the girl’s cunt. With her other arm, she shoves a hand down the top of Pansy’s dress—no brassiere, of course—and pinches her taut little nipple, hard.

“You’re going to be begging for this from me for the rest of your life,” Narcissa mutters fiercely, and Pansy covers her mouth with her arm and bites down. She comes so _fast_. So young, and no self-control. Narcissa will have to teach her some.

Pansy’s cunt seizes and pulses hot under Narcissa’s relentless massaging fingers, and Pansy writhes, overstimulated, tit still held hard in Narcissa’s other hand. “Come _on_ ,” she grits out, face flushed, as her back arches again and again, “for fuck’s sake—”

But Narcissa pushes her a little longer. She needs to be taught a lesson. And if the door were to open right now, well—it would be crystal clear who was the most compromised by this situation.

“I’m going to find Pansy,” Narcissa hears Draco say in the hallway, and as his footsteps recede there is a noise at the door and the knob starts to move—

“Oh, Dad, do you still have the 1953 Firewhiskey? I was thinking tonight calls for something particularly special.”

The doorknob stills. Lucius calls out, “Just a moment,” and his footsteps fade as he walks away.

Narcissa pulls her hand out from between Pansy’s legs. It’s damp and smells like sex.

Pansy stares at her, breathing hard, face red. Her perfect bob is disheveled. She looks quite thoroughly fucked.

“Clean yourself up,” Narcissa says, lip curling. Masking her own racing heart, she smooths her dress back into place and pats down her otherwise immaculate hair. “You can’t see your future husband looking like a well-used whore.”

Pansy’s eyes narrow. After a moment, she leans in and places a brief kiss on Narcissa’s lips.

Pulling back just a hair’s breadth, she murmurs, “I learned from the best, Narcissa.”

And tossing her hair back into place, she hops deftly off the desk and walks over to the door. She pauses with her hand on the knob.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asks. “Malfoy women, making a good show.”

“You’re not a Malfoy woman yet,” Narcissa says as she walks to the door.

“Oh, but I’ll be such a good one,” Pansy says, putting a simpering note in her voice. “You must know I’ll be a very devoted daughter-in-law.”

The smirks that pass across their faces as they leave the library are briefly identical.


End file.
